Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“That’s not fair,” he says. “That was years ago.”
“Name one memory that doesn’t involve medicine.”
He lets out a deeper sigh. “Farrow…” He’s thinking. My life is entangled with medicine, but there are plenty of memories he could choose.
My first high school dance—he let me take his Bentley to pick up my date.
My mall excursion at twelve-years-old where I got my nose pierced—he signed the parental consent forms.
My second grade chorus recital—he made me blueberry pancakes as a good luck, do well thing.
He exists in memories that are void of medicine, but he has trouble coming up with one. He just never placed value on any of them. While he raised me, he looked through one lens and never widened the scope. I know how this ends before it even does. I tell him it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We exchange a few more words about medicine.
And then I leave with Maximoff.
I’m not clairvoyant, but that I can predict.
17
MAXIMOFF HALE
“FARROW! Boxers or briefs?!”
Gotta love paparazzi. Asking the good questions. And by good, I mean trivial. Kind of funny if not predictable, but pretty trivial.
You should know that I’m not annoyed, but I’m more than cautious. This is one of the first times Farrow and I have walked hand-in-hand on a sidewalk in Center City together. He’s used to being the silent bodyguard companion.
Not the boyfriend to a celebrity.
The click, click, click of cameras that follow our trek to dinner—this is my normal. I have almost no recollection of walking without paparazzi in Philly.
And it’s all immortalized on videos they sold to tabloids. You’ve seen when I was a toddler, my dad threatened paparazzi who pushed too close to my mom while I was in her protective arms. Then I’d grow up and be the one holding my sister’s hand. Yelling at paparazzi to stay back, she’s only a kid.
Now I’m twenty-two, and if I could conceptualize a public first date scenario, it would’ve looked pretty close to this reality. Eight or nine paparazzi crowding Farrow and me. Cameras flashing in blinding succession and illuminating our features in the pitch black night.
His unwavering, assured stride that matches mine. His aviators that block the exploding light, and his hand that squeezes my hand with each incoming question. As though to tell me, I’m okay, wolf scout.
I don’t know…it makes me smile.
Maybe because this is my life, and I’ve always tried to accept the crazy parts that I can’t change.
“I love you!! I love you!!” a middle-aged cameraman constantly praises. Being overly complimentary is a thing paparazzi do. Others will just try to piss us off for a money-shot.
“Farrow!! Maximoff! Who hogs the blankets?!”
I steal a glance at Farrow. We’re both pretty good about not hogging the comforter, and as the sweltering summer approaches, we’ve only been sleeping with a sheet.
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and he squeezes my hand before telling them, “Definitely Maximoff.” He’s not changing our dynamic for them, for anyone.
My lungs inflate in a bigger breath. “In an alternate universe,” I tell the cameramen. “In reality, it’s definitely Farrow. Every damn time.”
I picture his eyes rolling around the fucking globe behind his aviators. My Ray Bans shield the incoming flashes that hike up a notch.
“Where’s Jane?!”
Family dinner at the Cobalt Estate.
“Why isn’t Jane with you?!”
My brain blares first public date, first public date, first public fucking date! And my stomach does this weird flutter-kick thing. Brain and body are way too excited at the prospect of tonight.
It’s not like I haven’t been out with Farrow before.
But in this capacity, it feels new.
“Farrow?! Are you on a date with Maximoff right now?!”
His brows jump, surprised that they guessed right.
“Is this a date?! What are you eating?! Who’s paying the bill?!”
Farrow risks a glance at me. Seeing if I want to answer. But I’m looking at him. Trying to see the same thing. He’s been selective about which media questions he’ll respond to. I want him to do what feels the most comfortable and not be fucking pressured.
“Who thought of the date?!”
Me.
“Where are you headed?!”
We’re nearing our destination. At the corner of the street, a red neon light spells out Tony’s Pizza. I know, I know—our first date is insanely inventive and revolutionary.
Pizza.
It only took me a solid month of overanalyzing.
Farrow pushes back pieces of bleach-white hair that fell to his lashes. And he subconsciously touches his belt—where his radio would normally be attached.
He’s only been off the security team for a couple days. We’re both still adjusting. Ahead of us, my temp bodyguard for tonight marches like a brick house.
I haven’t been assigned a replacement yet.
“Is this a date?!”
I let go of Farrow’s hand and wrap my arm around his shoulders. Fucking Christ. Pain wells up, and I breathe out through my nose. My left arm is considered my “good” arm. But lifting one shoulder sometimes inadvertently moves the other.